Outlaw Blues
by Shroom-Samurai
Summary: Three chapters, three stories in this interlocked tale of chaos.


Outlaw Blues

Chapter 1: You and I

Richard Devon lingered at the street corner, somewhere within the bowels of Staunton Island, Liberty City. A cigarette was lodged between his pink lips, two icy blue eyes staring to and fro, leaping back and forth as cars passed. The bleach blonde man had a small grin painted on his face; he wore a letterman's high school jacket, and a pair of simple blue jeans. Inhaling his cigarette with a small amount of force, Devon continued scanning the area. He was a simple and quiet man, graduated from Liberty High in 1995, sadly he didn't get a day job since. Yet during the waning years of the 90's, Richard got a few odd jobs which included a hit man, his current low-life profession. Devon usually didn't smoke, but he had a large amount of stress factor for his current job, the assassination of a juror. But this was no simplistic juror. Oh no, but a corrupt and bribed juror. One who'd seen much more action than any juror should ever witness. Which was why the head criminal in Liberty, a muscular Italian man by the name of Sergio Guiceppe, hired the expendable gun for the job. He'd most likely get the cops on his tail, probably would have them firing upon his locations in seconds. Yet Sergio did not find it necessary to inform Richard of this dreadful news. Plus, he offered the young man a $600,000 reward, an obvious suicide mission. Hilariously enough, Richard did not know the going price for hits on the streets. His was reasonably high! And if he did know the going rate, he'd most likely decline.

Beneath Devon's letterman jacket, he concealed a Para Ordnance P14-45 pistol, the .45 ACP round handgun kept in an inside pocket. Upon the other side of his coat, a ski mask sat in the darkness and waited to be used. Sighing gently, the eager jock lifted his right hand from his pocket, quickly inspecting his Fossil watch for the time. 6:00 AM, he should be coming out of his apartment by now, Richard thought as he continued to stand across the street from the large apartment complex. Next to it was the campus, a bustling yard of college kids where the athletes were worshiped, Richard's kind of place. He was cocky, arrogant, overconfident, and he had an ego the size of the city. It would surely be his downfall, for he strutted out and about, waving around his piece of hardware like it actually meant something in the industrial wasteland called Liberty. The skies always seemed to be gray, for this fact. On Portland Island, factories littered the area like a plague. On Staunton Island, it was inner city and upper-city. Both fashionable business and high Trump-like towers, to gang-ridden streets with nothing to offer but pain and suffering. Devon was in the second one. The gang part of town. It was just in the spot where the Yardies roamed, a Caribbean gang of Voodoo fools, so Richard suspected. In reality they were slowly and surely becoming one of the most influential gangs in Liberty. Some of the lower-rank members even passed Richard by, waved their colors around past the scowling athlete. He wanted to shoot them, but he knew if one died, the entire legion would leap upon him. And that fact was inevitable, they were organized. But his attention wasn't on the Yardies; it was on the juror.

6:03 AM, the juror exited the vicinity of the complex and entered the confines of the sidewalk. Richard knew that he would first have to follow him, in case the fool decided to tread into his bribing area. Devon found his place in the crowds of people behind the juror. Breathing heavily, Richard carefully and silently stepped, attempting to seem subtle and play it shrewd for the time being. Glaring with those baby blue eyes, Richard ensured that his gun was still holstered. Back in his childhood, he always learned to shoot from his dad. A dump-ridden backyard in Suburban California offered nothing but shooting to a boy in a town where no one knew each other. So in time, he played football and when he wasn't becoming the star quarterback and having every solitary woman in the school longing for his touch, he was shooting with his dad. The ironic thing was--he was terrible. But his Dad never said anything, just tried to keep it to himself, even though even Richard knew he was bad. A bit naive of his own flaws, however, he didn't think he was bad anymore, in fact he suspected that he was a good shot now. That was not the case. He still had the shot of a drunken marksman, who had been smashed over the head with a blunt object several times.

Pulling the nearly gone cigarette from his lips, he tossed it to the ground--still smoking. Extracting another pack of Kools from his back pocket, Richard inserted another one between his lips and connected the flame from his match (also removed from his back pocket) to the tobacco, stalking the juror all the while. As he weaved in and out of the crowd of people, his eyes kept themselves tightly and unbreakably locked on the courtroom crook. He inhaled from his cigarette, tasting the sickly sweet nicotine. Devon never smoked, he was offered marijuana on several occasions, but never dared to touch it. Even as he and the unaware juror began walking along side the stone wall protecting the Liberty City park, Richard was hesitant on smoking. But for some reason, he felt suicidal. He felt as if though he should live dangerously, and smoking helped that. So, the two kept on. Cars passed, not too many for it was still early in the morning. In the East the sun allowed it's beautiful orange rays to spray on the city like picturesque genocide. It was immanent that the began to reenter the slum area. Many 711's and gas stations, some waiting to be robbed, some waiting to go out of business. The juror took a left, and shot into an alley. To Devon's surprise, of course. Scowling in disappointment, he reached into his jacket and gripped the handle of his pistol, ensuring he had a tight grip on it. Carefully leaning against the several shops leading up to the alley, his paced slowed down dramatically. Several people watched him with interest, but it soon faded as they disappeared down the street. A blue Infernus was parked in front of the alley, Richard soon noticed, a slender brow arching slightly. Now he had to move, now he had to do something to end this hit. There lacked time, he had no chance to get his ski mask on without someone noticing him.

Carefully moving in front of the alley, he was caught off by a horrific surprise. "Bang, you die." There was the juror. Interlocked between his fingers, he held a Ruger GP-100 Revolver. BANG! Sparks erupted from the barrel. A loud ringing sounded off in Richard's ears as he shouted out in agony, the bullet ripping through right shoulder (mind you the alley was on the right side). Gripping his wound tightly, Richard watched as the juror took off--running with speed of an angel. Luckily the Infernus was not his, and he simply slid across the hood and began sprinting down the street. "Get back here! Get back you mother fucker! You piece of shit!" Devon shouted, innocent bystanders screaming in terror, moving out of the way as Richard himself began running after the shooter. He was, after all, a foot ball player, and his speed was quite good. Though he continued holding his large gash, blood seeping through his fingers. But he got through the pain, bringing his hand into his coat and un-holstering his pistol. BANG! Another shot went off, this time it was Richard. The juror screamed out, for the bullet zipped across the air and penetrated his thigh, but the projectile did not leave him. Limping heavily, the injured man cut into another alley, this time on the left side. It was riddled with graffiti, a few boxes were scattered about, along with several parked cars. Glancing back and forth franticly, the terrified juror spotted an idle van and got an idea. He ran toward it, hearing the unsatisfying drop of his gun, but did not waste time to pick it up. Simply enough, he crawled beneath the yellowish orange minivan, and laid in anguish. Devon soon caught up, running into the ostensibly empty alley/parking lot. "Where are you, fucker!" He shouted, pointing his gun in front of him as if seeking out the corrupt man. Behind him, a few citizens watched, but most of them were running and screaming "Gunshot! Gunshot!" Cars continued to pass, there weren't any signs of police just yet. Looking to the ground, Devon soon spotted the Ruger. With his free, yet very bloody hand, he lifted it up and shoved it into the holster in his jacket. "Come out! Now! Now!" He traveled deeper within the lot, beads of swear traveling down his face. It was in that moment, the banshee-like wails of police sirens filled the area.

Panting heavily, the juror made a daring escape. Carefully moving himself from beneath the vehicle, he stood and concealed himself for a moment, trying to pick a passable escape route. Another way out of the lot! He laid his eyes upon another alleyway, this one pointing toward the city park. Again he made a dash, though his feet made far too much noise. Richard immediately spotted him, and aimed his pistol. Get it right, shoot, shoot. He thought, aiming the best he could. Hesitating for a moment, he tried his best to recall his father's lessons. Aiming the cold and merciless barrel at the juror's head area, he squeezed down on the trigger. BANG! The gunshot was followed by a contagious moment of silence. Abruptly falling to the ground, the juror made no indication of life. Surely, he was dead. Grinning weakly, the dazed Richard slowly walked toward the alley exit. It was then his plans were rapidly cut short. Several LCPD police cars screeched to a halt in front of him. Officers leaped out, aiming their handguns at Richard. "Drop the gun!" One of them screamed, progressively moving toward Devon. When the criminal failed to comply, and they spotted the bleeding corpse behind him, they instantaneously fired away. BANG. BANG. BANG. Richard screamed out, his gun flew from his hands as he simply dropped to the ground, literally bathing in wounds.


End file.
